


Hot Stuff and ManTrap, or Robin takes his pants off again

by Smoke Ring Halos (technosagery)



Category: Canadian Actor RPF, Sanctuary (TV) RPF
Genre: Birthday, Birthday Presents, Co-workers, F/M, First Time, Nicknames, Polyamory, RPF, Sanctuary, Strip Tease, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-21
Updated: 2011-08-21
Packaged: 2017-10-22 21:30:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/242785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/technosagery/pseuds/Smoke%20Ring%20Halos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When they're unexpectedly filming over Amanda's birthday and Amanda's unexpectedly there, Robin takes his pants off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hot Stuff and ManTrap, or Robin takes his pants off again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cerie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cerie/gifts).



> For [Cerie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cerie/pseuds/cerie) on her birthday (or, well, the day after). Thanks to [Callie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Callie) and Silensy for the handholds, and [kageygirl](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kageygirl/pseuds/kageygirl) for the beta and petting.

They’re splayed around the suite in various stages of cooldown from an unexpected day of shooting, him and Ryan and Agam and Jonathan and Robert. Robin’s still having a hard time remembering their names, and his, he’s still so deep in Will’s head. He’s going to assume that’s the reason he doesn’t really understand why Ryan thinks this is even half of a good idea.

He rakes his hand through his hair, which is slicked down with the sticky-goop (technical term) they use to make it look wet when it needs to stay that way for long periods of time. His gaze narrows sharply, maybe because his head itches and he’s still coated in baby oil and he really fricking wants a shower. “No.”

Ryan strums a few chords on his beater guitar and Agam makes a face at Robin. “Why not? You take your damned pants off all the time.”

“That’s different.” It is, because he’s screwing around, and this is just...different. He feels like Will protesting ‘this is totally not fair! you can see me!’ But there _is_ a difference between being a goofball on the set for fun and what they’re asking.

“It’s not like she hasn’t seen you in nothing but your shorts before,” Robert chimes in from the couch where he’s sucking down a beer and eyeing Agam like if he just watches her long enough, she’ll get up and suck him off or something. He’s kind of a dog sometimes, but it’s mostly an act, unlike Ryan who’s just _that guy_ and Jonathan who...habitually manages to forget he’s short, buck-toothed and Canadian.

Not that Robin isn’t skinny with eyes freaky enough to have earned their own nicknames, but still. He knows his league and that’s kind of part of the problem. “Again,” he says, grabbing a beer off the tray room service brought them half an hour ago. “Not the same thing.”

Jonathan’s channeling Tesla still. He flips a hand at Robin. “Oh go on, Junior. I don’t see what the big deal is. We’re actors. Just _act_ like a stripper.”

Robin automatically makes a Will bitchface. “Easy for you to say, Toothy McFuckface. You’re not the one they want to climb out of a freaking cake.”

Ryan bounces up. “Listen, man, it’s Amanda’s birthday and we don’t have anything planned. She’s not even supposed to be here. _We_ were going to celebrate her birthday by getting spectacularly drunk, but now we have to do something with her. Come on, it’s Man Tapp, the Queen, her Majesty the Keeper of Our Paychecks, dude.”

“You’d totally do it if _she_ asked,” Agam says around a sexy little pout.

Robin sighs, picks up a pillow off the couch and throws it across the room at her. “So make her ask when it’s _your_ birthday if you want to see me naked so damned bad. Or better yet, just come to bed with me and we can celebrate Amanda’s birthday with a run at 46 orgasms.”

The guys all give him the filthiest looks imaginable and he grins in satisfaction. Which lasts exactly as long as it takes for Jonathan to say, “So it’s settled then. Junior’s getting in the cake. Cheesecake’s shopping with Beefcake. And Fuzzface’s hanging out with me to distract her until you guys get your shit together.”

Robin rolls his eyes. “Who died and made you king?”

“Oh do shut it, Robin. Just because you’d rather take Man Tapp out to dinner by yourself and--”

“Fine. _Fine,_ ” he says quickly, then gets up while he still has some dignity to gather. Man Tapp. Robin sighs. They really should call her ManTrap with those legs and eyes and curves that don’t have the decency to remember she’s turning forty-six, but he can’t call her that to her face. “You guys owe me. I’m talking baseball, Swiss Chalet, chocolate chip banana bread, the whole deal.”

* * *

The whole deal, the whole enchilada, that’s what you can see in these fricking Speedo-looking shimmery gold briefs Agam tossed through the door to his room half an hour ago. If there was time, Robin would be demanding something with a little more coverage, but there’s not and if he were wearing any more fabric, he’d never get the jeans over them. They’re spray-painted on his ass as it is, and the micro-mesh shirt and eyeliner aren’t doing a damn thing to improve his attitude.

Seriously, how the hell does he get himself into these things? He’d do _anything_ for Amanda. Anything. But this... Robin sighs. Their relationship (friendship, Dunne, friendship) is strong enough to weather this kind of crap, and that’s why the rest of them make him do it, but he doesn’t have to like it. He looks like an idiot in front of her often enough.

“Suck it up, Dunne,” he tells himself in the mirror as he smudges the eyeliner. He dusts some body glitter over his chest and pulls on the micromesh. A little gel to spike his hair up, a very little tinted gloss for his mouth, and at least he almost looks the part. Too bad he’s not pierced or tattooed, except on the arm. It would help.

Now he just needs a stripper name. And no, he’s not making it up from his first pet and the street he grew up on. If he’s playing a part, he needs a name he can slide into. Something sexy but a little ridiculous.

Hunter. Like Roxy Hunter. Hunter’s a good stripper name. It’s probably Will Hunter, he decides. This character is sort of who Will would’ve been if he hadn’t been offered the job at OCPD after he left the FBI, if somehow he didn’t drink himself to death. But he wouldn’t use Will for his stage name, because he’d be too easy to track down. So he’d probably make Hunter the first name and use something like Smith for the last name. Probably not Smith though. It’s just a little too boring, not enough of a hook to pick up the good money from the lonely housewives after the show.

Hunter Darshi. Hunter Robbins. Hunter Lawrenson. Hunter Declan...no, Declan Hunter. That’s a good interesting name. Sexy. Not that he’s ever telling Lawrenson or he’ll never hear the end of it.

Declan Hunter. Down on his luck ex-Fibbie, kicked out for being a little off. Maybe a touch of the Sight. He’s got a private investigator business but it’s not doing too well. So he’s dancing when he’s not working, doing a little escort service on the side.

Robin runs through his moves and decides the look’s a little twink for a Declan Hunter. A little twink for Mandy (he can call her that, no one’s listening but him), too.

J-Yo - he’s J-Yo now, as ridiculous as that is - is knocking on his door, telling him he’s supposed to be getting in the cake and Robin ignores him. He’s got a role to play and he’s going to play it right.

He ducks into the bathroom, rubs the spikes out of his hair with a damp towel, uses the same to get the glitter (most of it; glitter’s a fucking nightmare) off his chest and the tint off his mouth, and then wipes his eyes down with a corner. There’s just enough eyeliner left to make his eyes stand out in a really interesting way, so he leaves that, and practices the song in the mirror between sips of his beer.

“BinDunne, get your hot little ass out here,” Agam yells, and he’s vaguely more inclined to listen to her. Mostly since he’s almost done and maybe if he pulls this off, she’ll take pity on him later and get him so drunk he forgets he did this.

And that’s the last bit of motivation right there. Robin grabs another two beers, sucks one down so fast his head is spinning and tucks the other in the back of the painted on jeans.

Declan Hunter drinks his way up to the act, and he always leaves a bottle in the cake he crawls out of.

* * *

Somehow between coming up with the idea and executing it, they’ve managed to rent out the hotel bar (it’s late evening, they have money, it’s Amanda), call everyone, and fill the place up. Robin would be ticked at hearing Heyerdahl and Pascale’s voices, if it weren’t for having slipped on Declan Hunter already.

Okay, also, hearing Amanda asking someone, “Where’s Robin?” in that petulant, tired voice that makes everyone wince and lift eyebrows at him usually.

Lawrenson tells her he took off a few hours ago to get her something special and they haven’t heard from him, and Declan!Robin thinks he might just kiss the guy. He does actually have a present for Amanda, something private (not that, but God he wishes), and it settles Amanda’s pique enough for her to say, “Well, that’s all right, then,” in a voice that sounds a little too much like Magnus’s. She’s wound up and Robin slips character enough inside the cake hidden in the mini-kitchen off the bar to think she’d be dealing with all of this a lot better if Ryan were in the cake and he were sitting there with his arm around her shoulders.

A few sips of a purloined beer (sue him, Declan Hunter finished his own and snuck out of the cake for another one) later, Agam takes pity on him and comes over to lift the lid. She peers in and he gives her a little attitude from his cocked head and narrowed gaze, to his sexy sneer.

“Aw, c’mon. It’s not that bad. You’ll pull it out. Hell, you did Bollywood and we all thought you’d flop.”

She leans in to kiss his cheek and he lets her. She’s the client, after all. “When do I go on?” he asks, ambiguously in character.

“Soon. Just waiting on Polly.”

Polly? For Christ’s fucking sake. “Is there anyone not coming?”

“Your ex, RyRo’s, and the chick J-Yo picked up at the convention last month.”

Well, that puts him in a better mood, sort of. “If it’s more than ten minutes, bring me a beer,” he snaps and pulls the cake lid shut from the internal handle. The painted on jeans are up his ass and it would take another six-pack to keep him from smelling the B.O. residue the cake lining has accumulated over the years.

He reminds himself he doesn’t care. It pays the bills so he can stay in business. Plus, it’s for some hot Hollywood broad named Amanda.

* * *

It takes twelve minutes exactly, which gives him ten to finish the stolen beer and one and a half to pound the one the hot Darshi chick slips him before they’re rolling him out to the opening strains of Barry Manilow’s [_Mandy._](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GK8-gZVkYsk&feature=related) This was not his idea; he’d said it was moronic. Who the fuck strips to Manilow? Seriously?

Not Declan Hunter, that’s for damned sure. He grabbed a moment with the dude handling the music, some scruffy ass calling himself RyRo (the nicknames, god, he’s going to be telling this story for years) and rearranged things just a bit. The chick with the fuck-me eyes and suck-you mouth won’t care, as long as the birthday girl enjoys herself.

 _I remember all my life  
Raining down as cold as ice  
Shadows of a man  
A face through a window  
Cryin’ in the night  
The night goes into _

_Morning just another day  
Happy people pass my way  
Looking in their eyes  
I see a memory  
I never realized  
How happy you made me_

 _Oh, Mandy..._

The crowd’s laughing as the lid lifts on the cake, and even harder when they see him, but Declan’s used to all kinds of reactions and just pays the laughter back with a knowing smirk. He crosses the room to the birthday broad, obvious not just because they’ve put her in the center of everyone, but because she’s got Hollywood written all over those big blue eyes and long-ass legs, and if he’s real lucky maybe she’ll wrap them around him when this is all over. It happens sometimes. Not as often as Declan would like, but what’s he going to do?

On the musical cue, _And I need you today, oh Mandy_ at the end of the first chorus, he offers the brunette his hand. She grins and takes it, standing, which makes him the envy of everyone in the room, and that’s how it’s got to be if he’s going to make the tips that pay the bills. He lifts her hand to his lips and then leads her into a dance that’s inappropriately classic for his outfit but suits the music better than what the no-longer-so-hot Darshi chick wanted him to be doing.

Amanda, Mandy, moves with him like she’s known him for years and it makes him like her even though he usually hates the Hollywood types who hang out up here. All of ‘em think they’re better, but they’re really just leveled up in fucked up. He oughtta know. He takes pictures through their hotel room windows.

Not this broad, though. He’s pretty sure of that by the time they hit the bridge:

 _Yesterday’s a dream, I face the morning  
Cryin’ on the breeze, the pain is calling_

She’s just too classy for all that, he thinks, and maybe tonight’ll turn out to be worth it for more reasons than just the bills and the business. Yeah, maybe so, because when he spins her out of the dance on _I need you_ , she takes her seat again with a wry but soft smile that makes her look like ten million bucks and he’s not sure what he did that made that happen, but he appreciates that _she_ isn’t laughing.

An entirely different musical cue sounds as he spins her chair around to face the others and leans in to sing:

 _Happy birthday to you  
Happy birthday to you  
Happy birthday, Madame Producer  
Happy birthday to you._

With [Marilyn’s distinctive phrasings](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k4SLSlSmW74) but obviously without the tits, the gams, the blonde or the sultry feminine voice. He’s got the gold-and-sparkly on, but it’s still all covered up under the mesh, jeans, and black leather jacket he added at the last minute. The giggles don’t stop him from continuing through the end:

 _Thanks, Madame Producer  
For all the things you’ve done  
The battles that you’ve won  
The way you deal with SyFy’s notes  
And our problems by the ton  
We thank you so much_

He gestures for everyone to sing with him at _Everybody, happy birthday_ and the bar erupts into one of the better versions of _Happy Birthday_ he’s ever heard at a party. About half the guests can actually sing, which is fucking nice because you have no idea how annoying it is to listen to that damned song butchered four nights out of every seven.

Mandy’s smiling at it, turning her head back over her shoulder to shake her head at him. “You’re not seriously going to strip are you?” she asks, and he shrugs, rolling his shoulders. For a second, he slips character for a soft, “Sorry,” for her ears only, but then he’s right back to Declan Hunter as the opening notes of [Donna Summer’s _Hot Stuff_](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=27-TM3q5-Cc) roll out.

“Oh, dear god, Robin,” she says, covering her face as he spins her around again and slides her chair back across the dance floor, her in it, for her to rejoin the others. He takes off the leather jacket without much fanfare and puts it around her shoulders, then dances backwards using the awkward-as-fuck steps from _The Full Monty_ because the J-Yo and RyRo jackasses think they’re funny.

Pro tip: they’re not. They’re not even unique. Declan can’t even tell you how many times he’s danced to the Full Monty version of Hot Stuff this month alone. But that’s fine, it makes the steps easy and the mesh shirt comes off smooth as silk. He drops it in the lap of a pretty lady with one hell of a rack. She looks like she’s had a kid recently.

The painted-on jeans go a lot slower since he’s not wearing anything but the gold sparkly briefs underneath, but he pops the button right away, then the zipper to reveal a flash of the gold while he settles his hips into the rhythm. The Velcro closings on the jeans are a fucking revelation, since usually he’s stepping out of a puddle of denim, but apparently working for the Hollywood crowd means all the costuming and crap you could ever need to strip is sitting waiting for you on Lot 5 if you just know who to ask.

He tosses the jeans at the Darshi chick who’s jumped back up the hot scale with her grin. She’s enjoying herself and him, and that always makes a chick hotter.

She’s got nothing on the birthday broad, though, and Declan centers himself in front of her for the rest of the dance. Her cheeks are pink as anything, which is kind of sweet, and she keeps trying to look just at his eyes. Because of it (and the husband Robin-inside knows she has and loves), he spares her the lap dance that ought to end the striptease and just drops to one knee in front of her.

“Happy birthday, pretty lady,” he offers up without the faintest trace of irony.

“God, _Robin_. You’re incorrigible. Go find your pants,” she says, and the actor inside the role grins out of Declan Hunter’s eyes. “Your wish is my command, gorgeous,” he says as he stands.

“I’m going to get dressed. Someone get me a damned beer.”

* * *

The first damned beer, three glasses of water and a handful of Advil get downed in the bathroom while he’s putting back on his own clothes that Damian (bless him) brought down from his room and taking off Declan Hunter. Everyone knows to stay out of his way when he’s been deep in character, and even if it wasn’t expected out of this impromptu striptease, they all know him well enough to recognize it. That’s one decent thing about actors. They usually get each others’ quirks after awhile.

The second damned beer (which is a lot more like the tenth by this point, but he worked more than half of it off) goes down a little slower. Heyerdahl ducks into the bathroom (literally, guy’s so tall he has to duck his head under the short hotel doorframe) to take a piss. He catches Robin’s eyes in the mirror when he’s done and by that time they are Robin’s eyes again.

“Better hope the fans don’t get a hold of that one, Robin. You’ll never hear the end of them asking you to strip at the cons,” he observes, sly smile on his weird and scary mouth.

Robin’s not gonna lie; he loves the guy like a brother, but some days, Heyerdahl still freaks him the fuck out. He shrugs. “They ask me to take my pants off all the time anyway.”

“And half the time you do it.” Heyerdahl grins, but there’s something serious in his eyes for a second and Robin nods almost involuntarily in a _go on, man_ gesture. “You really are going to have to be careful. You and Amanda. Tinhat fans are really good at picking up the cues.”

Robin sighs. His crush on Amanda’s about the worst-kept secret on the West Coast. “Nothing for them to pick up about, except me falling into the ManTrap.”

Heyerdahl lifts a pale eyebrow and just says, “Huh.”

Robin’s not sure he wants to know what that meant.

Half an hour later, he’s leaning against the bar, mugging for photo ops and taking the jabs and jibes as they come. It starts with “J-Yo” and his Tesla reversion, “Who’d have thought you had it in you, Junior?”

Then there’s Lawrenson with his, “You ought to audition for the next stage version of The Full Monty,” which isn’t even funny, except that Robin laughs because he always does, and because Amanda’s standing right there and she laughs. _Everyone_ laughs when Amanda laughs. She has the most infectious giggle of any human being ever.

Did he mention that worst-kept secret?

He gets her a shot of tequila and one for him, too. They lick, salt, suck, drink together, and then she’s off again for someone else to tell her she’s the most beautiful thing they’ve ever seen and Robin’s left with Agam, who wants to talk about how the hell he pulled that off, and how is he such a jackass for making that work for him.

Robin shrugs, mellow by then, slings an arm around her shoulder and says, “Patience, DarshVader. In time you too will learn the secrets of The Method.” It’s dumb and lame, but he’s allowed, because he just _stripped_ in front of pretty much everyone he knows who still had any kind of respect for him.

Apparently Agam doesn’t think so, because she grimaces and punches him lightly in the ribs. “I know it’s hard, but try not to be a jackass. I was actually paying you a compliment.”

“Who could tell under that heavy, dripping, Kate-sarcasm?” Robin asks, because they all do it sometimes, slip into character, and when Agam’s drinking, she can turn into second season Kate at the drop of a hat. Or a shot.

Ryan comes over, punches him not lightly, and growls, “Producer’s pet. The fuck, man? That was supposed to be a joke. Then you gotta go and turn it into the Robin and Amanda show again.”

He’s not as pissed as he’s pretending to be, but he does get his balls in a sling over Robin’s relationship (friendship) with Amanda. They’re close, closer than the rest of the cast, and Ryan’s just insecure enough and just dick enough after his divorce to take it wrong that his pal’s tight with the pretty producer lady.

“Listen, dude. You guys set me up because you needed someone to take a fall for Amanda’s sake.” It sounds pretty damned rational and it actually is. He’s slowed his drinking down a lot, and while he definitely can’t drive, the room’s not spinning and he’s on his own feet. “You don’t get to cop an attitude because I made it fun for me, and her in the process. Not on, guy. Not on.”

Sighing, Ryan scrubs a hand through his hair and then rubs his scruffy jaw. “Yeah. I think you’re right. I’ll let you know next time I’m sober,” he says and wanders off.

The best thing about Ryan is he’s got the attention span of a goldfish on LSD most of the time. Robin tips him a beer salute and parks his ass on a stool. He’s stood up and out enough tonight.

Damian, Pascale, everyone comes by, even Polly, and he’s been dreading that, because he respects the hell out of the woman and the last thing he wants is her branding him a waste of oxygen. To his surprise, she smiles and pats him on the shoulder. “You’re a terrific sport, Robin, and a fine young actor. It was sweet, you doing that for Amanda.”

Robin kind of pinks up and shrugs. “The gang put me up to it.”

“The gang,” she says in that stern, Ranna tone that isn’t Ranna, just Polly, and he can’t believe he’s having this conversation with Atia of the Julii. “Will probably live to regret that, but I think you won’t. Regret it, that is.”

It’s about the fifth time since he put his clothes back on that Robin’s been confused by something someone else said. He chalks it up to having been in Will, crazy!Will and Will!Declan as well as two six packs of beer tonight, and lets it go. “Thanks. For all of it. I...” She looks like she’s leaving. “Really hope I get another chance to work with you.”

Polly pats his cheek (okay, obviously she’s been drinking). “I’m sure you will.”

After Polly leaves, the rest of the group goes in twos and threes and fives, and by the time it’s dwindled down to the main cast, Amanda’s tucked in the crook of his arm, and he’s really not sure if he tucked her there or she tucked herself.

Doesn’t matter. It’s Amanda.

* * *

Somehow Robin and Amanda end up in his room with four huge bottles of _water,_ thanks, curled together on his bed watching _Thor_ on pay-per-view and discussing their laminated lists. His, actually.

“Who’s number one?” she asks from where her head rests on his chest. It’s not the usual thing, but it’s not abnormal (or Abnormal). She’s away from Alan and Olivia on her birthday, and Robin’s family.

He pets her hair, also not the usual thing or abnormal, but not even half as innocent. “Portia de Rossi.” _Amanda Tapping_.

“She’s gay.”

“Stana Katic.” _Amanda Tapping_.

“Seriously?”

“No. I can’t believe I’m discussing this with you.”

“Why not me?” Amanda makes a face and tips her chin up to look at him.

 _Because I can’t stop thinking about kissing you._ “Uh, because you’re my boss?”

“I’m also sharing your bed at the moment. I think that renders the boss portion of the issue nugatory.” Amanda sounds satisfied. She’s one of _those_ drinkers who uses her ten dollar words to prove to herself she’s not drunk. Robin recognizes the pattern, because Will does it (when he’s drinking with Magnus) too.

“Did you just say ‘nugatory’?” he asks, eyebrow lifting in amusement.

She waves a finger at him, right under his nose, and it takes more willpower than he really should have at this hour with this much alcohol in him not to bite it. “Don’t change the subject, Robin.”

“I’m not changing the subject. It just made me hungry,” he protests. Weakly. Weak weak weakly.

“Number one.”

He’s tempted to go with Marjorie Monaghan for the Babylon Five joke but he’s not sure she’ll get it. “You’re not going to buy Natalie Portman, are you?”

Amanda rolls her eyes. “Why is this such a big deal?”

 _Because._ “Mary McDonnell.”

That stops her for a few beats. “Really? Isn’t she a little old for you?”

Robin shrugs, sighing. “No, not really. She’s a beautiful woman.”

“Hmmph.”

Now he screws up his face. “What?”

“Nothing.” She rests her cheek on his shoulder again, and they don’t talk again for awhile. Until Thor kisses Jane. It’s late, so he’s expecting her to say she has to leave or something, but she doesn’t. “Mary McDonnell?” she asks again, and tilts her chin up.

“Why is this so important to you?” he asks, defensive.

“It’s not. I was just curious. You guys all talk about this stuff all the time without me, and I...just wanted to share it with you, that’s all.”

Robin kisses her before he knows what he’s doing. It’s quick, but totally, in no way the usual thing, normal, or chaste. It’s completely abnormal (but still not Abnormal) and he’s now quietly freaking out. “Shit shit shit I’m sorry. I’m sorry Amanda I’m sorry.”

Amanda props up on her elbow to look at him. “What on Earth for?”

“Um...” Okay? Well... he still has to follow through here, because it’s the right thing to do. “Kissing you.”

“Why?” she asks and her eyes are big and soft and blue. He really wants to kiss her again.

“Because you’re my boss--”

“Ahem.”

“Right, nugatory.” Robin smiles a little because that’s just funny. Next time she reminds him she’s his boss, he’s going to tell her he thought that was nugatory. “Well, because you’re married.”

“Yes.” Somehow she still doesn’t seem disturbed. Maybe it was more chaste than he thought, or it was “just a kiss, Robin.”

“Can you...explain why you’re not smacking me? Aside from the no inter-cast violence clause in my contract,” he teases, trying to keep it light, even though their bodies are way too close for her not to notice his heart pounding and his dick...yeah.

She sighs and shakes her head. “Because I wanted you to kiss me.”

“Because you...” He blinks, totally confused. “But you’re... and I’m... but you’re... Amanda, you’re married. You’re _happily_ married with a beautiful daughter. Last time I checked anyway.”

“Mhm.” Amanda’s staring at his mouth.

Amanda.

Is staring.

At his mouth.

Amanda is.

“And this doesn’t bother you?” It dawns on him that maybe he should ask the hard question instead. “You are _happily_ married, right? Everything’s okay with you and Alan?”

“Oh, Robin.” Amanda drops down to his chest again and wraps her arms around him to give him what he assumes is a hug. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine, really. We just have an arrangement.”

“We do?” Color him completely mystified. Maybe it’s the alcohol or the characters, but he doesn’t think so.

“Not we, you and me. We, me and Alan.”

“Okay, that makes more sense.” No it doesn’t. He sits up a little and tugs her with him, kind of urgent. “What _kind_ of arrangement?”

Now she grins. “The kind where you and I could have an arrangement too.”

Is she...she’s not...holy fuck maybe she is. “What _kind_ of arrangement?” he asks again, even more tangled up and insistent.

“The kind where you kiss me and we see where that goes.”

...she is.

Oh Jesus Christ, Amanda Tapping just propositioned him. _Come on, Dunne. Say something cute._ “Ask me about that list again?”

Her expression shifts, softening oddly. “Who’s number one on your laminated, anytime, anywhere, no questions asked list?”

“Amanda Tapping,” he tells her, then kisses her again, slower, tasting her mouth and branding his memory with the feel of it, in case she’s just drunk and fucking with him. The way she kisses back, sweet with a surprised little hitch to her breath, Robin doesn’t think so. “She’s also numbers 2 through 10.” And that’s only an exaggeration because he doesn’t actually have a list. He just makes shit up for the others when they ask.

“I can’t believe you stripped for me in public, you idiot.” She pokes him in the chest and then - oh holy fuck - she’s straddling his hips and he’s sure he just died and woke up in heaven.

“It wasn’t my idea. And, hey! I didn’t know there was an ‘arrangement’.” Well, fuck. Maybe that’s what Heyerdahl and Polly were talking about.

“Robin?” Amanda’s got that Madame Producer look in her eyes so he gives her his complete attention. “Better. Now shut up and undress me.”

* * *

The undressing happens fast. Not so fast that any clothes are harmed in the making of this movie, but fast. For some reason Robin can _not_ figure out, isn’t willing (yet) to ask, and Amanda hasn’t decided to clue him in on, Amanda’s as eager to strip them down to skin as he is.

“You’re sure this is okay?” he asks her for about the thirteenth time, when his hand skims over her bare hip and then back up to the swell of her breast.

“For the thirteenth--” Okay, exactly thirteen. She’s counting. “Time, Robin, yes. It’s all right. Do you want it in writing?” Amanda’s starting to get a little exasperated. He knows the tone.

“Sorry,” he whispers to the elegant curve of her neck and nips gently. Her hips roll up against him, and he does it again. “It’s just...”

“I know.” Amanda slides her fingers into his hair and pets him. He sort of wants to freeze this moment forever. “It’s complicated. I get it. If it’s too complicated--”

“No.” God no. _Fuck_ no. He puts her on her back and rolls up over her. “It’s just that...” Deep breath, truth is important. Their relationship, her friendship, is way too important to fuck around with. “Mandy...”

“Robin.” Every other time he’s called her that, she’s stopped him. Tonight, the ‘Robin’ is soft and sort of breathless instead of annoyed. Huh.

“I love you. Is the thing. I...this isn’t just sexual tension from sharing close quarters and stuff. I love you.” More than he ever loved his ex, which was pretty much the problem.

“I know, Robin. I love you too.”

He’s dead or dreaming. He has to be. “Did you just...I can’t even...”

She kisses him this time. “Yes, Robin, I did just tell you I love you.”

Amanda loves him. And from the hand snaking - oh god - around his cock, she doesn’t just mean he’s family. “Mandy... is that covered by the arrangement? Not the touching.” He figures that’s okay because it’s Hollywood by way of Vancouver and sometimes actors just are weirdly okay about multiple sex partners. “The loving.”

She laughs softly. “Can we talk about this later?”

“Right, yeah. Of course. I’m just...” Bowled over, blown away, completely unspooled...head over heels in love with her. “Yeah, of course.”

To stop himself from babbling anymore, he lowers his head to her breasts. They’re as great as they look under clothes, yeah, they’re real, and oh yeah, she’s incredibly sensitive, which he learns from his tongue curled around one nipple and her hips rocketing for the ceiling.

As soon as he _hears_ her making hot, breathlessly needy noises for him, Robin’s beyond fucked. If this is a one-time thing, he’s so completely screwed. But he’s not thinking about that right now. Right now, he’s only thinking about licking and sucking and kissing her beautiful breasts until her thighs splay wide and he can see how wet she is.

Amanda.

Wet.

For him.

“Can I...” Robin strokes the inside of her thigh with his fingertips, picking up just a slight slick up near the crease. He groans and his voice sounds thick and soft with arousal when he tells her: “I really want to taste you.”

That surprises a breathy, “Oh god, please, Robin,” out of her and he has to grin. She’s flushed head to toe (gorgeous), her nipples are so tight and hard they look in desperate need of a long, long suck or like they just got one (Pro tip: the latter).

“Anything for you, Amanda. You know that.” It’s true, completely, and both of them know it. He’s proved it almost daily since the whole Sanctuary phenomenon started, even if his crush then had been more like a starstruck kid than one of her besties. He hadn’t even met Shanks and Judge yet. But somehow it sounds even more true than usual, softer and sweeter with a devotion that’s not unlike Will’s (he has to get that from somewhere) when he’s skimming the toned curve of her belly with butterfly kisses and worshipping even the stretch marks from Liv.

Amanda buries her fingers in his hair and he can tell from the way her stomach muscles tense and quiver she’s strung out, pleasure-restless already. The part of him that knows how she gets when she’s wound like this (it happens on set sometimes) regrets that the part of him that’s never had this experience is going to make it worse before it’s better, but ‘is going to’ becomes ‘is’ fast enough that the regrets are minimal: he draws his thumbs up her labia and spreads them gently open, then blows a soft puff of warm air at her.

She arches, finger-grip tightening in his hair and he moans quietly with her. “Oh god, Amanda, you’re even beautiful here,” he half-whines before kissing her reverently.

“Don’t be a dork, Rob- _in_ ohgodoh _god_.”

He smirks, a little smug for the twirl of his tongue that caused that outburst, but only a little. Mostly he’s completely immersed in the sight-smell-taste-feel of her between his lips and on his tongue. There’s nothing smug about the movements of his mouth against her or the way _his_ eyes roll back in his head when she hooks her legs over his shoulders and he’s abruptly fucking her with deep, probing stabs of his tongue.

It’s a good thing he’s thirty-five and not seventeen, or the spit of precome from his dick that’s slicking the sheets would be a mess of come already, because she’s freaking amazing and he can’t even believe the thigh he pulls back enough to kiss belongs to the woman he’s been pining hopelessly for for years.

“Ro _bin_.” He loves the way the pitch of her voice rises when she’s needy, loves it even more when she adds a quivery little, “ _please,_ ” after it. And they’ve already established he’ll do absolutely everything for her, so he locks his arms over her hips to keep her steady, she claws at (seriously, he’s going to have stripes) his arms, and he delivers with a vengeance, licking, sucking, tongue-fucking her until his face is coated with her and she’s skyrocketing, hips slamming his mouth and keening.

“Fuck, Robin,” she hisses on her way back down, because he’s not done yet and she just figured it out.

Her whole body rolls in a wave when he works two long fingers into her. He glances up to make sure they’re still okay and they’re _so_ far past okay. She’s flushed, dewy, head tossed back, tugging at her own nipples ( _ohgod, hot_ ; he wonders if this arrangement comes with visual privileges) and whining. That’s all the go ahead he needs to thrust them up and curl them against her g-spot.

She cries out again, and he sucks hard on her clit. It only takes a few passes over her g-spot before she’s coming so hard a second time, he’s seeing stars from her cunt’s crushing his knuckles with every, wracking spasm.

 _I never realized, how happy you made me, oh Mandy._ Yeah, he’s a sappy fucker. Sue him. He’s the one in bed with Amanda.

* * *

“So,” Robin starts in about ten minutes later, when Amanda’s hair is fanned over the pillow and he’s leaning up on his elbow to stroke and pet her everywhere he can reach. “Is it?”

Amanda rolls her head over to the side and looks at him, sweat-sheened, soft-eyed, and bemused. “Is what?”

“Loving me.” It’s still a really good thing he’s thirty-five and not a teenager, or he’d be pinning her beneath him instead of talking and while he wants her, so badly, he wants to know a few things first. Because for him, there’s a world of difference between burying his face between her thighs, or even fucking her against a wall (which, if she’s serious about this arrangement, he definitely wants to do, because have you _seen_ her legs?) and making love to her the way he wants to right now.

“Is loving you what?” She’s amused. He can tell by the way she quickly ducks an arm and rolls up on her hip to smile at him.

Oh god, that smile. He could die happy, right now, seeing her smiling at him up close like that, dimple showing, eyes all smoky-beautiful.

“Why do you have to be so beautiful, Amanda?” Robin whispers and brushes her hair off her cheek and neck to kiss her again, softer and sweeter this time. “Is loving me covered by the arrangement?”

“Yes, definitely.” Now she’s touching him, fingertips tracing his jaw before sliding into his hair. “It has to be.”

His heart flips over, but he makes himself focus, even reaching behind him to grab a bottle of water for them to share. He cracks it open. “Does Alan know?”

“Of course, Robin. I don’t lie to him. It wouldn’t work if I did.” She takes the water from him gratefully, drinks a quarter of the bottle. Well, spills about a tenth, but he leans in and laps it off her shoulder and breast before it’s wasted.

She curls her hand behind his neck and that’s almost the end of the conversation, but he really does need to know. “What did he say?”

“The same thing he said about Rick and Teryl.”

She’s teasing him. She has to be. He lifts an eyebrow. “Really? I mean...” Okay, he’s a guy, not a saint. “Are there pictures of you and Teryl? Are you still seeing her, because--”

Amanda smacks him in the shoulder. “Robin!”

“ _What?_ You can’t just _tell_ a guy something like that and not expect a reaction. I mean, she’s almost as gorgeous as you are!” He looks wounded and she laughs at him.

“She kept all the pictures,” Amanda deadpans.

And now Robin’s imagining Teryl keeping filthy pictures of them in an inappropriately crafty scrapbook. He moans and buries his face in her hair.

“But I’m not still seeing her.” She quirks a grin at him when he peers up again. “At least not recently. Maybe I’ll see her more often now that she’s done with Hellcats. She was a little worried about the bad press if anyone found out while she was playing the most Christian mom ever to be Christian on the CW.”

“That makes sense.” And raises a really good question, but he’s got one more before he gets to it. “What about Rick?”

Amanda shrugs and her eyes go a little shiny. “No. He always had more of a thing with Shanks--” She swats him before he can even say it. “Yes, really. And after Danny came back from being Ascended, we kind of drifted apart.”

He pulls her in and kisses the top of her head. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. He’s still one of my best friends. It’s just different now,” she tells him, but he notices she doesn’t actually try to make him let go.

“Okay, so what about Shanks and Judge?” he asks, because he’s a completist.

“Ew. Chris is like my brother. And Shanks, well... Lexa was a lot more jealous of me than Rick.” Before he can ask, she fills in the rest. “Ben and Claudia were fun, but not like that.”

“So, okay. Alan knows about all of this, and he’s cool with it, because...?” Robin thinks Alan’s either a saint or a moron, he can’t tell which, but if he had a ring on Amanda Tapping’s finger, he’s pretty sure he’d do everything he could to make sure he _never_ had to share. He guesses it’s a good thing Alan’s not him.

“Because it’s possible to love more than one person at a time, Robin, and because when you work as closely with someone as I do you, looking at you through Magnus’s eyes day in and day out, it’s impossible not to love you after a while. Alan’s a pragmatist. He knows I love him and I’m never going to leave him unless he makes me miserable. Letting me love you if I do just means I’m happy when I’m with him because it’s where I want to be and I’m not thinking about anyone else.”

It’s a lot of words, and he’s not really sure he’s got it all. He sips the water and kisses her forehead. “So, he’s _really_ okay with me?”

“He loves you, Robin.”

“Uhm. He’s a great guy and everything but--” But Robin’s really not into guys, with a few drunken exceptions. A blow job’s a blow job. She’s rolling her eyes so he doesn’t bother continuing the train of thought.

“What about Liv?”

Amanda tenses a little and he rubs a hand down her spine, soothing. “Does she know?”

“No. She doesn’t need to,” Amanda says and that’s pretty sharp for the circumstances.

“I’m not planning to tell her, Amanda, I’m just concerned. Something Heyerdahl said, about the fans. Picking up cues.” He sighs and caresses the length of her body again. “The tabloids. I’m worried someone will find out and make you and Liv and Alan miserable.”

She relaxes into his arms again and nuzzles against his neck. “Don’t worry about it. Alan and I have a media plan, just in case, but we’ve been wearing each others’ sunglasses for years. We can’t actually cuddle in public anymore than we already do.”

Robin thinks about that for a few minutes and then nods. “Okay. I mean, obviously, it’s not going to hurt me if it comes out, except if people think I’m trying to break up your marriage. Which, Amanda, you have to know--” And his tone’s a little desperate. “I would never do. I mean, I love you, and I’ll always be here for you, but I respect the hell out of you and Alan making that work and I love Liv like crazy, so I’m just never going to--”

“Robin. It’s fine. I know. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t,” she soothes.

He breathes. “Okay. Good.”

“Anything else you need to know?” She has that little tease in her tone, like she’s got something else entirely in mind, but the way she touches him, kissing his neck and jaw, says she gets why he’s worried and that’s all right with her.

“Um.” There’s no good way to ask this one. “Is it just me right now?”

She tenses again. “I’m not a slut, Robin.” Yep, no good way to ask that.

“That’s not... Amanda, that’s not why I’m asking. I just...” He rolls his shoulder through a sheepish shrug and just looks at her. “Why _me_?”

She softens immediately and loops her arm around him. Amanda’s the one who got him through the divorce, which while it was a good idea and the right thing to do, it still sucked, and no amount of readily available nookie changes that. She knows he’s still stung over it. “Because your castmates threw you in front of a bus for me and you method-acted your heart out.” Her lips are incredibly soft against his. “What was his name?”

Robin grins at her. “Declan Hunter.” It’s really pretty damned amazing to be known as well as Amanda knows him.

“Tell me his story?”

Of course she doesn’t doubt there is one. “I love you.”

She smiles. “Tell me a story, Robin.”

So he does. Remember that crush? And how he’d do anything for her? He tells her the whole story of Will Hunter, the Will-alike, who took the stage name Declan Hunter, and danced until his PI business steadied out. He embellishes the ending with the beautiful Hollywood broad who saved his life and stole his heart and Amanda laughs so sweetly, he kind of wants to cry. She’s so beautiful, he loves her so much, and he can’t believe they’re doing this.

“Next time, tell me your story of Will and Magnus. Make it good. If I believe in it, we’ll talk to Damian.”

Now he’s beaming back at her, because he really thinks that would be right for both Magnus and Will and she’s always resisted it. It feels like something’s changed between them again, if she’s really willing to listen to that.

“One more question,” he asks, but his fingers are already resting in the dip of her spine and his dick has been smearing precome on her thigh for most of the conversation.

“Sure.”

“Would you have told me if I didn’t kiss you?”

“I was going to tell you at Comic Con, but you wanted to get drunk!” She pokes him in the shoulder for emphasis.

“Because I wanted this!” he protests, because now he feels vaguely cheated. He could’ve been loving her a month already. Well, with her permission. He’s been loving her without it forever.

“Why didn’t you just say something?” She sounds honestly curious.

“Married!” He rubs his thumb over her wedding ring. “ _Married._ ”

“It’s a wedding ring, Robin, for fuck’s sake. Not a leash or a chastity belt.” She shakes her head, like he’s somehow supposed to have known.

“Look, it’s not like there’s a tag on it or anything. ‘Ask me about opportunities for polyamory.’”

She giggles and, of course, he does too. Yeah, he’s going to make love to her. But first, they have some laughing to do.

* * *

By the time they both stop giggling, Robin’s on top of Amanda. He’s got her wrists pinned back to the bed, and her mouth is the most amazing color, somewhere between pink and red from all the kissing between giggles. Her smile’s pretty amazing too, all warm and intimate and just for him, and there are even fewer words to describe that than the color.

It’s not really her mouth or her smile that he’s focused on now, though, not even those bedroom eyes that have eased out of laughter into an intimate sort of visual caress that feels better than anything he’s known in a long time. He’d like to be all kinds of noble and say it is, or the curl of her hair against her shoulder and the way it shines in the lamplight, but that’s Will’s schtick, the knight errant thing. Robin’s just a guy in bed with a crazy beautiful woman he’s wanted for years.

So, yeah, he’s not so much thinking about those pretty eyes or that sexy mouth (well, maybe a little, but what he wants to do with that can wait a little while). To the extent it’s fair to call it thinking at all, his whole focus has narrowed down to the ache in his balls and the fact his dick has (mostly without his direction) settled itself between her thighs, against the wet heat of her cunt. And he’s thinking, totally ignobly, about how awesome it would be if she didn’t make him use a condom when he slides into her.

“Earth to Robin,” Amanda teases but she’s shifting restlessly under him and clearly wants what he wants.

“Thinking,” he tells her, where ‘thinking’ means rocking his hips to rub himself right up against her and make her moan.

When she finishes with that incredible sound, she grins and asks, “About?”

“Honestly?” Robin looks her right in the eyes. “About how damned good it would feel to be in you, not in a condom in you.”

She blushes and it’s maybe the sweetest thing he’s ever seen. Not pretty in pink sweet, but sweet like cool, clean water after a long workout or a long day on set. Her gaze dips though, and when he releases one wrist to tip her chin up, there’s a clear struggle in her eyes.

He shakes his head and kisses the flare of guilt away. “Ma-an-dy,” he sings softly between kisses. “It’s okay. I have lots of fantasies about you. That’s just another one.”

“We’ll have to work on that,” she says gratefully and he twists around to grab the condom he’d wrangled from his jeans during the tickling and laughing portion of bedroom play.

“Later.” He tears open the wrapper (fingers, thank you), retrieves the condom and rolls it quickly over his blindingly hard dick. Something about how she’s looking at him makes it not about sex again, and he’s never going to know for sure what, but when he says, “I need to be in you now, Amanda, I need you so much,” it feels more like confessional than dirty talk.

She doesn’t say she needs him, too, and Robin doesn’t ask whether it’s because she doesn’t (she does have an entire life without him, even if she and Sanctuary are the twin stars of his world), or because that’s what curling her hand around the back of his neck to draw him into a kiss means. He chooses the latter, letting the slide of her tongue against his soothe away the sting of meaningless one night stands, the buried embarrassment of letting it all hang out for her earlier, the fact he’ll never be the one whose ring she’s wearing, and hikes up one thigh to sheathe himself in her.

When she moans and her hands slip over his shoulders and down to his ass while she pulls him deeper, he forgets all of that. Sex is like method acting. You can get lost in it, if you let yourself.

Robin’s not lost in sex. He’s lost in Amanda.

Okay, and sex. She feels freaking incredible - even with the condom - and those _legs_. They wrap up around his hips and he props himself up on his forearms and elbows for leverage.

It’s slow. Really slow. Top Gun love scene slow, kisses traded between thrusts, smiles shared between kisses. Once or twice, his fingers steal from sheet-clenched fists to brush her hair back so he can see her better. The rest of his life, he’ll remember this night. It’s perfect. She’s perfect.

And, yeah, it’s a hell of an ego-boost to have Amanda Tapping writhing under him, damned near begging him to take her harder. Or it would be, if he weren’t shaking with the effort of not doing it, not yet, and driving them both crazy with the wait for it.

Her fingers spasm, curling tight into his back. He thrusts a little harder and she bows up under him. Oh god, that’s good. Really good. So good his patience _snaps_ and his hips with it. Those fingers slip and her nails rake long, painful furrows down his back; he arches into them, wanting the proof for tomorrow that he wasn’t dreaming this.

That’s the last coherent thought he has before he’s slamming into her, balls slapping against her with every thrust. The room’s full of wet sounds and heavy thuds, the scent of sex, and their mingled moans. She spasms, or he does, he’s not sure who starts it, but they finish it, shuddering and panting.

Together.

The same way they’ve done almost everything else for the last five years. It’s the best feeling. Seriously, the best feeling ever.

* * *

The worst feeling ever is waking in the morning to Amanda not there anymore, and Robin covers the ache by curling around a pillow. He really needs to hold her, like he did after they made love the first time, and while they did, soft and lazily with him behind her, the second time.

He needs to feel her here with him, but they need to be discreet, for Alan and Liv’s sake, more. Intellectually, Robin absolutely understands that. But it’s never going to be easy, waking up alone when he’s spent the night with her.

Like his wistful thoughts summon her, his phone lets loose with Manilow’s _Mandy_ just then. Her idea, during the laughing and tickling, and he’d liked it enough to change it right away. It makes him smile a little now when he reaches for the phone.

It’s just a text, which would make him frown, but she’s taking care of him again: _Miss you. How do you feel about breakfast?_

 _Depends_ he types back. _Do I get you with it?_

 _Go shower, Hot Stuff. I’ll be up to get you in ten._

Now there’s no threat of frowning at all. He rolls off the bed, digs in his case for clean underwear, a fresh pair of jeans and a t-shirt, but he leaves the t-shirt on the bed. If he times it right, he can answer the door not wearing it, and maybe get another quick taste of her hands on his skin.

He showers fast, brushes his teeth and pulls on his boxers and jeans. Still three minutes to go, so he spends it on his hair, and inspecting his arms for scratches that’ll show in short sleeves. There’s one, but he can pass it off as a legacy of the striptease. He’s pretty sure no one but Amanda was looking at his arms.

She knocks; at least, he hopes it’s her, since he grins and goes to the door shirtless. Agam wouldn’t mind, but the guys would mock, and he’d have to show off the tiger stripes on his back to turn around and get the shirt.

He opens the door. It’s her. She’s smiling. Today, now, he’s lost in that smile.

“I told you I’d be up in ten. Why aren’t you ready? I’m starved,” she says, loud, and her eyes and head tip back toward the hallway. She’s putting on a show.

Robin falls into line and plays along. “Sorry. Got a call. You can come in if you want. I just have to finish up my hair.”

“You and your hair.” She feigns disdain and breezes into his room past him.

When he shuts the door and turns, she’s right behind him. “Morning, gorgeous,” he says, just like he does every time she comes to get him for breakfast.

“Morning,” she agrees and it’s soft. A little hesitant.

In all the time he’s known her, he’s rarely seen her hesitate. The idea that she’s nervous something’s irrevocably changed between them is sort of endearing. Something has, but nothing’s broken.

He opens his arms; she steps into them and whispers, “ _Robin._ ”

If the arms that wrap around his waist hold a lot tighter than is really comfortable, Robin doesn’t blame her. Not one bit. He kisses the top of her head. “I love you, Amanda.”

She doesn’t say it again, not yet, but she doesn’t have to. It’s there in her eyes when she lifts her head from his shoulder.

“Want your presents now?”

He got her a jacket with the “Doc Magnus” comic cover silk-screened on it, and a Tiffany silver charm bracelet (which he wasn’t sure he’d be brave enough to give her, but now he will) with a heart and a set of swings for the day nothing was going right on set, she broke down and stormed off, and he found her later on the swings. He’d pushed her for a full five minutes before she acknowledged him at all, and when she did, it was just to hop off the swing and slip into his arms. An old friend had died of breast cancer and she needed a hug. For both of them, it had been the day he went from Producer’s pet (whatever they still called him) to Producer’s best friend. She would’ve understood it before, he’s sure, but now she’ll know to drop the ‘platonically’ out of his declaration of love.

“Maybe in a few minutes.” She presses her mouth lightly to his, mindful of the cameras that will be flashing when they leave here, then grins. “It’ll make a better excuse than your hair, hot stuff.”

Robin laughs and her eyes crinkle at the corners. “I’m never going to live that down, am I?”

“You kidding? It’s your new ringtone.”

Oh god. They’re going to bust his balls _so_ hard for that. But it’s okay. He’s got his arms and his heart full of Amanda. “Whatever you say, ManTrap.”

“ManTrap?”

“Yep. If I’m stuck with ‘Hot Stuff’, then you’re ‘ManTrap’.”

When she’s done swatting him and calling him a jerk, he kisses her forehead then sings softly, “I never realized how happy you’d make me, oh Mandy.”

Even though her eyes are as soft as his voice, Amanda’s mouth twitches with suppressed laughter. When she finally beats it, it’s just to say, “How fast can you take your pants off, Robin?”

**Author's Note:**

> I blame Cerie, Silensy, Callie and Deense for the inspiration, and credit Silensy for the awesomeness about Teryl and the pictures and for the idea of a tag on the ring. And I thank Emily Waters for the characterization of Alan. It made this fic much easier to write.
> 
> I claim no connection to the actors in this fic, and in fact, any resemblance to their actual personalities is more or less incidental. I borrowed their names and faces to tell a story that pleased me; that's why they call it real people _fiction_.
> 
> Hatemail in the circular file. I already know I'm a terrible person and I'm going to hell.


End file.
